Hugs, Sweat & Cheers

If you want to run with Boston's grassroots November Project, you'd better be serious about working out—and loving your fellow perspiree.

No more cowbell. Please. As if in answer, a hollow clanging echoes around Harvard Stadium and we all drop to the concrete and rip off 10 push-ups. Then it's back to the steps. "I don't care if you slow down, don't stop moving," a deep voice booms. "Just like life." A few high-lunges later and I slap my hand at the faded number 22 at the top of the seating section. My lungs are heaving, my quads so heavy I'm pretty sure they could anchor a boat. I draft behind a couple of lithe college-aged women, reining in my breath as we trundle down the steps before tackling the next section. "Holy crapola, those are steep," one of them says. To my left, at least a hundred runners clamber up the rows in various stages of distress and concentration. To my right, easily a hundred more. "You stop moving, you're dead," the booming voice continues, "then you're no fun."

That voice belongs to Brogan Graham, known to most around here as BG. At 6' 6", he's impossible to miss. But just in case, he's dressed in a red-and-white-striped long-sleeve shirt under a green Milwaukee Bucks basketball jersey, a bright bicycle cap, a pair of coffee-colored shades, and black running shorts. In his hand, a drumstick and a cowbell. The 30-year-old is the irrepressible cofounder of November Project, a grassroots fitness group that's part flash mob, part running tribe, and all the rage in Boston. This morning's mission: 40 sections of the iconic horseshoe coliseum in Allston, Massachusetts—each 31 rows steep—sprinkled with "fire drills" of push-ups and burpees. "We're not a running club or boot camp," Graham says, "but people accidentally do a lot of running with us."

What started two years ago as a way for a pair of former college rowers to keep each other motivated during winter has turned into a year-round phenomenon, drawing hundreds to their irreverent, high-octane workouts, from recovering couch potatoes to competitive marathoners. Three times a week, from 6:30 to 7:30 a.m., between 100 and 650 freshly woken souls lace up for skin-quivering strength work at different spots around the city on Mondays; breath-robbing steps at Harvard Stadium on Wednesdays; and quad-searing repeats on one of Boston's steepest hills on Fridays. Rain or shine.

For all this, not a penny is collected. No signatures or e-mail addresses required (participants get notification of the upcoming workouts via the group's Web site and social media feeds). The only dues are good vibes and dedication. And a lot of sweaty bear hugs.

TO KNOW THEM IS TO HUG THEMFifteen minutes earlier, I'd been standing with Graham and about 30 other newcomers on the stadium's lower concourse while the "big kids" began their sections above. Whether you're chasing a sub-3:00 marathon or your shoes still have that new-sneaker smell, everyone spends day one in the newbie meeting. Olympic gold medal rower Esther Lofgren and then-Boston Bruins defenseman Andrew Ference began their first November Project workouts in this same spot.

"The biggest race of the day, we say, is from when your alarm clock goes off to when you get out the door," Graham says. "Just show up. Workout's effin' easy." (Except he drops an actual F-bomb.) He looks around, scanning the bleary eyes and pillow-scarred cheeks. "A couple ground rules," he continues. "At November Project, we are not shakers. We are huggers. If you're not comfortable with that, you're not going to like it here. I grew up in the Midwest. We are huggers on a daily basis. Huggers have more fun in this life. Shakers don't risk anything. If you don't risk, you don't earn the chance to live a better life. I know it sounds Hallmark, but it's true."

I'd heard about the hugging, written off by some reporters as a marker of the everyone-gets-a-trophy Millennial and Y generations. Even though the young and taut outnumber the bearded and wrinkled here, that's a misfire. Graham and co-founder Bojan (pronounced BOY-an) Mandaric are hard-core not just about fitness but about community. The hugging is both an icebreaker and an equalizer. At traditional running clubs, runners tend to seek out folks of similar speed, Graham says. November Project workouts are designed to push limits but not segregate by ability. Theirs is a shared battlefield forged by a desire to go full-tilt, stoke competitive spirits, test mettle, and have fun.

"So for the next minute, introduce yourself to one or two people and, with a lot of eye contact and repeating their name so you remember it, have a conversation where you learn something about that person," he says. Within seconds, an excited babble fills the air.

BATTLE CRYTwenty minutes into the workout, much of the chatter fades to heavy breathing, occasional swears, and a few pleas to Jesus. Too quiet for Graham, apparently. "Are you good?" he calls out. On cue, a couple hundred voices shout back the tribe's battle cry: "F—k yeah!" Followed by clapping and hoots and hollers. And suddenly, we've all picked up our pace. On the field, groundskeepers, well familiar with the scene, tend to the lacrosse nets. After I get a high-five from Graham, I hear: "See that guy in the orange shorts? He's with Runner's World. Chase him." Crap.

Near the upper bleachers, hidden from the action, a tatted-up muscle-bound dude is bent over gulping for breath while a couple of sweaty young women in short shorts and sports bras have stopped to share water, legs shaking. They were with me a month earlier when I first started running the stadium alone. Still, with a good 15 years on them, I was chuffed.